Confessions of St Ronald
by EveningInHornersCorners
Summary: Anyone who's seen "One Man Shy (Peter and the Debutante)" knows about Ronnie Farnsworth. But could we have possibly misjudged him?
1. Chapter 1

The name's Ronald Ignatius Farnsworth. You can call me Ronnie. I doubt you've heard of me, but if you have you must also have heard of the Monkees. And chances are you think they're just your classic, innocent boys next door, and that I'm a haughty, cruel, insensitive, rich, stingy, snobbish, creep. Now I will grant you haughty and rich, but cruel, insensitive, stingy, and snobbish? Ha!

_You_, my friend (or not), are sadly misinformed. It was probably that episode of _The Monkees_ that NBC broadcast last week that did it, complete with footage from a guy who was following them (and me, unfortunately) around with a camera. But I will have you know that I'm not the bad guy here. I'm just the innocent victim that got all the blame because the writers decided that the story, as it was, wasn't "exciting" enough. Pathetic, right?

I lost the best thing I ever had to one of those… rodents. I mean, let's face it, humans or Monkees, they don't deserve to be called primates. And I say "rodent" specifically because I have reason to believe they're members of a cult. Namely "The Chipmonks".

And no, you clod, I didn't misspell that.

###

"All men must have someone. Have someone who will never take advantage of a love bright as the sun. Someone to understand them. And you just may be the one."

My head was pounding, pain building up in my temples, though part of that I'm sure was due to my clenched jaw.

Here I had offered to take Valerie (my girlfriend and the best thing I ever found) to a nice lunch and a matinee performance of _Arsenic and Old Lace_, but instead she wanted to stick around my mansion and listen to this "band" audition for a gig at her coming-out party. So here we were, giving an ear (or in Valerie's case, both ears) to this infernal racket.

But to me, it wasn't just a terrible song. It brought back memories -painful memories- of my childhood…

I was born during the Great Depression and grew up in part during World War II. Being a child during wartime is never easy, and the fact that neither of my parents were particularly competent didn't help matters. They had me at a very young age, and as far back as I can remember they were never around, so I was on my own. I barely ever saw them, but somehow I knew they were my parents.

Remember that cult I mentioned earlier? Well, growing up I was dirt poor because my parents were some of the most faithful members of The Chipmonks and thus made large "sacrifices". This was supplemented by the fact that neither of them could hold a job.

I really only have one memory of them. Once, when I was very young, they dragged me off to one of the "services". All the members wore the same clothing (double-breasted blue shirts and khaki pants) and chanted these creepy songs.

But the thing I found most shocking were the haircuts. Long, long, long, even on the men. Remember, I was a young, inexperienced child, and these were the 1940s.

Has _anything_ I've said rung a bell?

Growing up all alone wasn't easy, but I coped well, or so I like to think. After school, I worked odd jobs wherever I could, and since I had an exceedingly sympathetic landlord who never really asked for the rent, I kept myself fed and clothed.

But my biggest break was when I won a scholarship, and my high school history teacher, because he was so impressed with my brilliance, offered to pay the difference.

College was a glorious time for me. The idea of just _learning_, without constantly thinking of where my next nickel would come from, intrigued me. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa. And you know the rest.

I entered a profession (and no, I'm not going to tell you what it was; I don't want you figuring out my tactics) and now, ten years later, I own a vast mansion and have a full staff of servants, including my prized butler, Jeeves. No, not that Jeeves, you simpleton.

Now I will bet you a Rolls Royce (yes, I have more than one) that by this point you're all ruffled and confused, trying to wrap your head around what all this has to do with "You Just May Be the One".

Well, in case you didn't pick up on my hints (in which case you are the epitome of a numbskull or too young, which is almost as bad), I will have you know that the Monkees look _exactly_ like The Chipmonks, right down to the hair. So, it is logical to assume that they are members. And I will also have you know that I am _convinced_ that "You Just May Be the One" is the primary chant used by the cult. I think this is even further evidence. Yeah, yeah, Nesmith claims to have written it, but after all, he's _just_ a Chipmonk.

So there I was, listening to this terrible song with a completely oblivious member of the opposite sex.

"I think that's…quite enough." Clapping my hands, I made this statement, the one I'd been attempting to make for I don't know how long, trying to cut off the abominable clatter. This time, it worked. I turned to Valerie.

"Valerie surely you don't want these _chipmunks_ to play at your party," I exclaimed, making sure to put extra emphasis on the word "chipmunks".

She glared at me reproachfully. "I certainly do, Ronnie, and they're not 'chipmunks', they're the Monkees."

"But they're dreadful!" I countered. Then, in an undertone, I said, "All that hair."

"Ronnie." And, much to my chagrin, she hired them for the gig. Of course, little did she know…


	2. Chapter 2

Now Tork, well, I knew he was trouble the moment I saw him looking at the picture I'd had painted of Valerie. I mean not looking but _looking_. All starry-eyed, for lack of a better term.

But it was while his fellow band mates were mocking me that Tork ("Peter" I think they call him; absolutely revolting name if you ask me) did the most offensive thing humanly possible: he stared at Valerie _herself_. A picture is one thing, but another man's girl?

I sternly reprimanded him, but somehow I didn't feel like that was good enough. It was then that I knew I must avenge the robbery of my childhood, and thwart the threat of losing my girl.

###

The day the Monkees auditioned for and got the gig, the picture I'd had painted of Valerie disappeared, and a great deal of panic arose. We asked after it _everywhere_, but it was not to be found. When I suggested interrogating the Monkees, however, my girlfriend sharply rebuked me.

But, when we stopped by to ask about the playlist for the party, I took it as the perfect opportunity to prove to Valerie that these "Monkees" were nothing more than thieving Chipmonks.

Well, their beach house was a complete wreck, I must say, so my fabulous mind deduced that it would be fairly simplistic to hide the picture in all the mess. And, it turned out that Nesmith (or is it Nishwash?) was holding a mirror over it while trying to look natural by combing his hair with the other hand and acting all vain.

In any case, Valerie told Tork (who readily admitted that he'd taken it) that he could keep it until the party. Not a smart move, if you ask me. But then, who asked me?

Yes, that was the first of the Monkee shenanigans. But by no means was it the last.

###

Well, after _that_ happened, I was _exceedingly_ cautious about making my first move against the Monkees. And, in all technicality, I _didn't_ pull the first move. They did that for me.

In an attempt to keep Valerie from Tork (an impending threat if I ever saw one), I arranged a date that lasted an entire day. That day, we caught a movie and then decided to go to lunch. That was where the second Monkee shenanigan took place.

Like any rich man who wants to show a lady a good time, I took her to a restaurant that advertised "authentic French waiters" and "the best champagne in California".

I asked one of these "authentic French waiters" to get me a bottle of their best champagne. He tried and failed to open it. With a flourish I said only a "real gentleman" knows how to open champagne and proceeded to snatch the bottle away from him.

I should have suspected something when I found that Iwas unable to open it. You see, I'm a seven time gold medalist champagne opener in the Gentlemen's Olympics.

Then that "authentic French waiter" took one end, I took the other, and together we yanked.

When we _finally_ got it open, so much pressure had built up inside the bottle that when it was released, it managed to knock a building clear in L.A. I mean, Malibu's not _that_ far, but it's still pretty impressive that a little bottle of champagne could do all that.

And yes, you dolt, it literally knocked down a building. Just watch the footage.

Now, after that happened I _obviously_ didn't want anyone to see my flawless champagne opening record ruined. So I left the waiter with a fifty dollar bill (and you say I'm stingy), dragged Valerie out of there, into my car, and starting cruising down 1966 Street, looking for someplace -_anyplace_- to duck into.

The first thing I saw was a little art festival, and it seemed as good as anything, so I swerved into the grass area they called a parking lot (pathetic, I know) in record time, yanked Valerie out of the car, and then just began casually sauntering through the exhibits, occasionally saying something like "Art, Valerie. Art."

At one point she commented that she liked a picture of a street with the ladies in their hoopskirts and the gentlemen sporting stovepipes. I rebuked her, just like any rich guy who doesn't want to buy something does. Informing her that it didn't "say anything", I quickly scanned the premises for a piece that _did_ say something. A conglomerated pipe system immediately caught my eye.

I _instantaneously_ formulated some short speech about its representation of the "over-mechanized structure of our society", but I had only just started my spiel when I saw a bearded man dusting it and immediately demanded to know if he was the artist who created the piece.

He gawked at me. "What are you, a nut?" Ignoring that last comment, I quickly began showering him with compliments and insisted that I _must_ own it. I'd reached for my wallet when he said, matter-of-factly, "You can have it. But all it does is turn on the fountain." And with that, he rotated a valve lightening fast, and I got doused in the face.

Well, needless to say, I was beyond humiliated. After all, my champagne opening record had been demolished, and now a young, imprudent artist had just drenched me with his "masterpiece". I was about to sock the fellow in the nose when Valerie, exerting all her strength, was able to keep me back from that creep and eventually coaxed me back to the car.

Once there, she climbed in, and looked sullenly out the window, waiting until I was settled before she began her lecture.

"Ronald Ignatius Farnsworth. Violence is not the solution to everything."

"But Valerie!" I protested. "He'd just embarrassed me in front of who knows how many people."

"I don't care what he did. It makes me ashamed to be seen in public with you when you act in such a disgraceful manner."

I had no response for that, so the rest of the ride was engulfed by silence. We'd reached downtown Malibu when she said, "Let's get off here." So I parked by the sidewalk, not really caring that the passenger's side was nearest to the road. I easily slid out on my side while she attempted left and right not to get run over by a Stingray or XKE or the like. It was actually rather amusing.

Well, when she _finally_ made it around, we began strolling down the sidewalk, looking just like an ordinary, happy couple (no, really). That is, until we came across the toy salesman. He was sort of a funny-looking guy who spoke with a slight accent. I could have sworn I recognized him from _somewhere_, but I couldn't quite put my finger on where.

Truthfully I hadn't intended to get involved with him. On principle, I don't like children or those who cater to them. No, I take that back. I _hate_ them. I had an exceedingly unhappy childhood, and I see no reason why anyone should be comforted, coddled, _babied_, as a child. If all parents were as incompetent as mine, you'd have a whole lot more rich geniuses (like me) out there.

But the toy salesman asked me if I wanted "something for the little nipper". I responded no, and then _he_ concluded that I didn't like children. He was _obviously _right, but Valerie (being a woman), put her hands on her hips and shot me a "remember that talk we had" look. So, I lied through my teeth and said I _loved _children. Before I knew it, the ugliest doll I had ever seen was thrust into my arms.

The man then began his sales pitch about how it was the only doll on the market that really wet, spit, and screamed. The worst part, though, were his demonstrations. Demonstrations, that is, of the doll wetting, spitting, and screaming.

Now it's one thing to have a champagne opening record wrecked... Or to be doused by a rash artist... But to be wet on, spit on, and screamed at by a baby doll?!

I looked up at that creep of a salesman. There was a familiar glint in his eyes.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" I demanded. In hindsight, all I can say is _that_ made him pack up his stand quickly and make a run for it.

I knew that three strange occurrences, with me as a victim in all three, could only mean one thing: _someone_ had set them up. And I thought I had it figured out who that _someone_ was.

I spent the next two days attempting to locate a picture of the Monkees, which I will have you know was no easy task, since "Too Many Girls (Davy and Fern)" hadn't been… oh, sorry. I'm spoiling next week's episode. And yes, blockhead, I mean _next week's _episode. I am well aware that the one I almost spoiled is the _fifteenth_ and I'm describing the _thirteenth_ right now, but I remind you that I said this one I am currently speaking of went on the air _last week_.

In any case, it was hard to do, but, being my brilliant self, I found one, and bamboozled Valerie into coming over to see my conclusion. She was there when I showed her the picture -with their heads circled, no less- and I proved that Nesmith was the artist, Dolenz (the giant ham) was the salesman, and Jones was the "authentic French waiter" (which was _really_ a rip-off, since he's _English_). She wasn't upset with anyone but me.

I made a snap decision right then and there. I _had_ to make my move soon. And holy fudge, it had to be good.

So, I looked directly into the camera (yeah, that clod was still following me around; pathetic, right?). And you know what I said?

"Two can play at this game."


	3. Chapter 3

She didn't act it, but Valerie must have been suspicious when I told her I thought we should invite the Monkees over to play some lawn games. I, after all, do not make a habit out of dating dumb girls. But we did just that, and they showed up right on time, which totally flabbergasted me.

But, all that aside, when they arrived, my butler Jeeves and I took them outside where we met up with Valerie. The way she said hello to Tork just sickened me, and made me all the more grateful Jeeves and I had set up a few little gadgets that guaranteed my winning in at least two of the games.

A word about cheating: I wasn't doing it. My actions were just as much for Valerie's benefit as they were for my own. Who knew what would happen to her if she started going with someone as naïve as Tork? She might revert to childhood.

Since my girlfriend was watching, I made an effort to seem like I was being pleasant. I told them how nice it was for them to join us, and then I asked Tork to compete against me shooting skeet. However, Jones stepped in, gloating that he "happened to be an expert with a gun". So I tossed one at him just a _little _harshly. We agreed that I could shoot first. So I got into an impressive position, and then signaled Jeeves to set off the first device. It went off simultaneously with my gun and the skeet was no more.

"Give it a try, Jones old boy." I offered cordially (well, I like to think) but with just a _tad_ of sarcasm.

Well, "Jones old boy" heaved the gun and made a feeble attempt to point it upright. It was fortunate that I had fired first, because the gun dropped at the last moment and ended up totally wrecking the contraption my butler and I had created. I made a comment about a "nice shot", and then indicated to Jeeves to prepare for the archery. When he was finished (which was very quickly; one of the advantages to having an efficient butler), I took my bow and arrow and shot.

I explained to the Monkees that what I had just done was "perfect archery", and then I asked Tork if he wanted to come up and try. Jeeves quietly switched out the bows so that he'd be using a defective one guaranteeing that the arrow wouldn't fly.

Nesmith was actually the one who stepped up. I held back a smirk and commented that he looked just like Tork.

Nesmith informed me that he had killed "itty bitty mountain lions" with a bow and arrow but had never used this make before. Immediately, my protective instinct kicked in, and I told Jeeves to stand back because "good servants are hard to find". Especially ones who will be on your side in everything. For some reason, people seem to hate me…

Nesmith's attempt at shooting the arrow: FAIL.

The last activity of the afternoon was badminton. I explained the concept of it to them and asked Tork if he would join me. However, Dolenz volunteered.

As far as badminton was concerned, there was no need for an exotic contraption because I'm just darn good. Dolenz, on the other hand, cowered when the birdie came by and just barely managed to hit it.

Eventually, I used a genius maneuver, landed it in his mouth, and then quite snarkily asked after it. When, at long last, it finally emerged, I merely commented smarmily, "Nice return, Dolenz."

Well, the Monkees were pretty well fried by that point in the time, so we thanked them for a nice afternoon and said goodbye.

As soon as they left in that hideous red car (I think they called it "the Monkeemobile"), Valerie turned around and ran into the house, clearly upset but for some unknown reason. I shouted to Jeeves to clean up the yard and took off after her. I must have chased her for fifteen minutes (one of the disadvantages to having such a large house) and was right on her tail when she stalked into the library, refusing to look at me. She yanked a copy of _Gone With the Wind _from the shelf and, sitting down in an armchair, opened it up to the middle.

I stood behind the chair, reading the text right along with her.

"What do you think of it?" I asked.

"My favorite book," she replied tersely.

"Mine too," she looked up from the page and craned her neck to glimpse at me.

"Really?"

"Yes. I first read it when I was in high school and was working at a little five and dime that hardly got any business. It got so dull once I finished my homework, so I asked the owner to lend me a book, and guess what he came up with?"

She sighed contentedly. "I like how skewed Scarlett's viewpoint is. It actually makes it sort of amusing, don't you think?"

"Her viewpoint isn't skewed." I snapped. "It's really quite reasonable. How would you feel if another girl took me away from you?"

"Relieved," she spat. "Frankly, Ronnie, you're a disgrace."

I sensed we were getting onto the topic of what had happened with the Monkees this afternoon, so I just submitted gracefully. "But Valerie, darling…"

"Don't 'Valerie darling' me, Ronnie. I'm ashamed of you."

"What did I do?"

"You know." She glared at me angrily.

"But I was just trying to show you what they were."

"I don't care what you were trying to show me. In shaming those boys you humiliated me. And yourself." She reached for the phone.

"But why are you calling them?" I demanded. "You don't even know they're home yet."

"They live pretty near here. And that's a fine car they have."

"Not as nice as any of mine…" I muttered.

"Anyway," she continued, paying no heed to my remark, "I want Peter to take me to my party." She began to dial the number they'd given us.

"You mean Tork? The oaf?"

"Ronnie." Her voice held a warning note.

Less than five minutes later, I was met with the crushing news that Tork had agreed to take her to the party.


	4. Chapter 4

I didn't see much of Valerie during the next few days; occasionally I'd be walking and I'd see her and Tork dancing in the park or something and I'd stare for a moment before moving on. You'd understand better if you saw the footage. I should have known she would meet her demise in their company, but at the time I was too upset to foresee anything.

By the time the night of her debut rolled around, I hadn't spoken to her in three days. But I still turned up at the party, you know, to kind of watch over things. I'm just that thoughtful kind of guy. And as painful as it was to see Valerie and Tork together, they were the ones I was primarily spying on.

And when I saw Tork's "stock broker", "English tailor", and "yacht captain", I knew something was up, because they looked suspiciously like Monkees…

So, wearing my Dracula cape, I kind of glided through the groups of people and was able to catch the little bunch by surprise.

"Ronnie!" Valerie cried in horror.

Well, the "stock broker", "tailor", and "captain" began making excuses to leave, and if that isn't proof of phoniness, well, I don't know what is. I even asked Tork if they were his fellow Monkees, and he confirmed my suspicions.

I _ordered_ the other three onto the bandstand, but what do you know, they start playing that hellish cult chant "You Just May Be the One" (incorrectly introduced as "You May Just Be the One", which just goes to show what nitwits they all are).

Tork declared that the first dance was his, but I stepped between them, and before you know it, we got into a fight that can really only be explained by the footage caught by that creep with the camera.

The worst blow: Tork won, and afterward, Valerie took me aside, slapped me, and told me that dating me had been a month of torture.

###

So there it is. Those four classic boys next door? Nothing more than a vicious cult. And Valerie? Gone, going out with Tork.

All I wished to do was discourage the Chipmonks. But instead, I lost the best thing I ever found.

Just tell me this: How would you feel if you were the 501st richest person in the world, and you lost your girl to a kid barely out of his teens, and a member of the cult that destroyed your childhood, no less?

Hey, look, I'll tell you what. I'll buy you the Colgems record label, _plus_ NBC. The only condition for the former is that you have to cancel _The Monkees. _Isn't it awful that those rats -er, Chipmonks- have their own T.V. show? And you can replace it in the 7:30 time slot with whatever you want. Heck, you could force one of your favorite shows to come out with two episodes a week, so you could have one earlier in the day, and one replacing _The Monkees_.

As for the latter, you _must_ boot the Monkees records. But you can bring in any band at all -the Beatles, for all I care- to make up for the lost funds that they would have been bringing in.

Think of it. With a record label and a television channel, you could do _anything_. Dominate the world. Send subliminal messages to viewers and listeners. The possibilities are endless, and as long as you comply with my stipulations, the choice is yours, my fine sir (or ma'am). So what do you say?

Oh, and while you're at it, fire Chip Douglas. Yeah, yeah, the producer. He's the leader of the cult. I mean, how else do you think the "chip" got in there?

Putting Boyce and Hart out of commission wouldn't hurt either. No, they didn't write "You Just May Be the One", but I think they did write another primary chant, "I'm A Believer"… oh wait, sorry. That was Neil Diamond. Heck, do away with him, too.


End file.
